The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence

by Alyssa Palombo

  “Here we are,” Lorenzo said, opening the door and motioning for the two of us to precede him inside. I could not help but gasp as we entered.

  It was a very small room, but such was the artwork that adorned its walls that it seemed quite grand indeed. Covering three of the walls was a series of paintings depicting the procession of the Magi, in glorious, vivid colors.

  Lorenzo smiled at my reaction. “Beautiful, no?” he gestured to the frescoes. “My great-grandfather, Piero, commissioned the frescoes from Benozzo Gozzoli.”

  “They are incredible,” I said, moving toward the wall across from me to more closely inspect the work. The detail was astonishing; each face with its own individual expression, each color gleaming brightly down at the viewer. And such a large work: there were scores of people, of animals, all processing through the familiar Tuscan countryside toward the Christ child.

  “It never ceases to astound me what man is capable of,” I murmured, walking along the wall, following the steps of the Wise Men. “To conceive of such beauty, let alone to capture it for eternity…”

  I trailed off, and paused to look back at the two men, still standing near the door. Both of them were staring at me with an expression of naked adoration. I turned my gaze back to the frescoes, uncomfortable.

  “Your intended is a most intelligent and perceptive woman,” Lorenzo said to Marco, though I could feel that his eyes were still on me. “She is a true child of this renascimento.”

  “Indeed,” Marco murmured. “This is a beautiful place for a marriage ceremony. I can think of none better. I shall never be able to thank you enough, Lorenzo.”

  Lorenzo waved his words aside. “It is quite enough for me to be able to make you and your bride happy.”

  I paused before the altar and genuflected. Then I took a step closer, that I might better see the painting that hung over it. It depicted the Virgin, blond and delicately featured in her robe of blue, kneeling beside the Christ Child. The Holy Child lay on a lush green forest floor, with a copse of trees surrounding them, and angels watched over the Virgin’s worship.

  “Ah,” Lorenzo said, moving toward me. “The altarpiece is entitled Adoration in the Forest, by Fra Filippo Lippi. It was commissioned by my esteemed late grandfather, Cosimo.” He chuckled. “Grandfather had quite the job in getting the work he paid for out of the monk, of course.”

  “Why is that?” I asked, turning back to Lorenzo.

  “Surely you’ve heard the stories of Fra Lippi.”

  I shook my head.

  He smiled. “It is perhaps not suitable conversation for a chapel. But Fra Lippi was a monk who absconded with his favorite model, a young nun named Lucrezia Buti. She quite distracted him from his labors, not to mention his vows.”

  I gaped at him, shocked at such a tale, and shocked that Lorenzo would speak of it so casually.

  He seemed not to notice my reaction, but instead stepped closer to the altar. “She later bore him a child,” he said. He pointed to the figure of the Blessed Mother in the painting. “And she can be seen there. He has immortalized her in many other paintings besides this one, so I am told.”

  I quickly forced myself to recover. That monks with their nun mistresses should be so openly spoken of—that a monk should use his mistress as a model for the Virgin, no less—was something else I must accustom myself to about this Florence, it seemed. Was this what my father sought to warn me of, when we arrived in the city? I wondered. Yet since Lorenzo clearly thought nothing of the tale, nor did Marco seem at all scandalized, I knew I must master myself. I stepped closer to the portrait. “She is quite beautiful,” I said softly, studying the figure that Lorenzo had identified as Lucrezia Buti.

  “Indeed,” Lorenzo said. “It is easy to see how she may have tempted Fra Lippi from his vows, no? Ah, but,” he said, taking notice of the deep blush that still clung to my cheeks, “I have offended you, Signorina Simonetta.”

  “No, no,” I assured him. “I have just … never heard such a tale before, that is all.”

  “Indeed,” Lorenzo said. “Sadly, Holy Mother Church is beset by such tales often enough. Celibacy is a difficult thing to ask of a man.” He turned to face Marco, who had come up behind us. “You shall have yourself a wife who is a pillar of virtue, amico mio,” he said jovially.

  “Indeed,” Marco said, his eyes seeking mine. “She is beautiful in her soul as well.”

  “That she is,” Lorenzo said. “Come. Let us rejoin the others.”

  I followed the two men to the door of the chapel, but before I left I felt my eyes drawn back to the altarpiece again, and to the face of a woman so beautiful she had made a man forswear his vow to God. Was such beauty a gift or a curse?

  And would the punishment from God that surely awaited this woman be worth what she had gained in return: being immortalized in such a work of art?

  Still, I thought, in spite of myself, in a place I did not think I could ever share with anyone, it is a terribly romantic tale.

  8

  “There is one more thing I would show you, Signorina Simonetta,” Lorenzo said as we left the chapel. “If you would allow me.”

  “Of course,” I said, curious.

  He led us back up the hallway down which we had come, up another staircase, and down another corridor before stopping in front of a set of double doors. “You mentioned your love of the written word, signorina, so I thought you might particularly appreciate our library.” He flung open the doors in a wide, showy gesture, and I breathed a happy sigh at what was beyond.

  Rows and rows of shelves stretched back into the narrow room, stacked one atop the other, higher than a man’s head. Scarcely was there any empty space; books and manuscripts and papers were crammed—neatly so—into the confines of each shelf. I had never seen so many books in one place in all my life. It seemed to me that all the knowledge in the world must be in that room, waiting for those who would seek it out.

  I felt my pride in my own small book collection wither and die. What must it be like to have so many books in your own home, for your own learning and pleasure, at your fingertips whenever you may choose to peruse them?

  Openmouthed with wonder, I turned back to Lorenzo. “Have you read all these?” I asked, astonished.

  He laughed. “I am afraid I have never had the time nor the leisure to read them all, much as I may wish to. I have read a good number of them, though; either in the course of my lessons as a boy or for my own edification. I have begun to add to the library myself, and plan to do so as much as I can.”

  I began to wander along the shelf-lined wall to the left of us. I resisted the urge to let my finger trail down the spines, and instead merely peered at each volume, imagining all the things that they might contain. Some were bound in worn, faded cloth; others in rich cloth of the brightest, most vibrant colors; others were bound in brown or black leather; still others were just bundles of papers held together with string.

  “I do not know that any of my friends, learned as they are, appreciate this library quite as much as you, Signorina Simonetta,” Lorenzo said. He clapped Marco on the back. “Beautiful and pious and learned, eh? Truly you are the luckiest of men, amico.”

  Marco nodded. “Simonetta and I share a love of Dante,” he said. “It was one of the many, many things that made me fall in love with her.”

  I turned from the shelf and caught his smile with my own. I felt my heart flutter in that strange way I had begun to get accustomed to.

  “Indeed,” Lorenzo said. “No doubt Florence’s greatest son. And tell me, Signorina Simonetta, have you also read the works of Francesco Petracco?”

  “I have not heard this name,” I confessed. “My formal education ceased a few years ago, and so I have had to make do with such books as I can find in Genoa.”

  “I have heard the name, but cannot recall any of his works at present,” Marco said.

  “Well, now you are here in Florence, signorina, the center of poetry and art and philosophy in all the world,
” Lorenzo said, as though Marco had not spoken. “We shall remedy this immediately.” He began to move across the room toward one of the shelves.

  I smiled as I watched him. “You speak of Florence as if it is like to Athens,” I said.

  He retrieved a book from the shelf and came back toward me with it in hand, grinning. “Precisely, signorina. You have divined my dearest wish perfectly—to make of this city of Florence a new Athens, where learning and beauty are prized above all. And you, who have both, may well be the jewel in Florence’s crown before long.” He bowed and presented me with the book. “A gift, signorina. For you and your betrothed. A book of Petracco’s poetry.”

  “Oh, but I could not accept—not from your own library!” I protested, even as Marco stepped forward and took the book on our behalf.

  “You need think nothing of it, signorina. I have several copies of these particular poems, and so do not deprive myself or my household the pleasure of reading them by making you such a gift,” Lorenzo said. “And I wish to extend to you—to the both of you—an invitation. I pray you to make full use of my library whenever you like.”

  I was quite overwhelmed by Lorenzo’s generous offer—and to a woman he had met just a few hours ago.

  “That is most kind and generous of you, Lorenzo,” Marco said, finding words when I was not able to. “I thank you, on behalf of us both.”

  Lorenzo nodded, but he was looking at me. “You are most welcome. I am happy to share these treasures my family has acquired, and to make such friends happy.” He began to lead us back to the doors. “Now we must return to the party, before I am accused of being derelict in my duties as a host!”

  “You are anything but, my friend,” Marco said, falling into step beside him, and I followed the two men out. I placed a hand on Marco’s shoulder and gestured to the book, which he handed to me wordlessly, even as he engaged Lorenzo in a new topic of conversation.

  Walking behind them, I took a moment just to enjoy the feel of the book in my hands. It was bound in coarse leather, and the paper was thin; it was not as fine as some of the volumes I had glimpsed on the shelves. Yet it mattered not at all. To hold a book, any book, in one’s hands, to smell the leather and the paper and feel the smooth pages beneath one’s fingers, to anticipate the pleasures contained within, was a gift and a blessing. I could not resist the temptation of opening it and reading a few lines of the first poem. Yet before I could get any further, we had returned to the courtyard where the evening had begun, and I could read no more. In spite of such illustrious company, however, I could not help but wish that I might take myself off to a chair in a corner and devour the entire volume in one sitting, so entranced had I been by just the few lines I had read. From the smile that Lorenzo gave me when he saw me clutching the book tightly, protectively, lovingly, I knew that he, at least, understood.

  * * *

  We took our leave not long after that, and Marco called for our carriage to be brought around. Lorenzo bid us an effusive farewell, and I received smiles from Lucrezia and Clarice, who both said that it had been a pleasure to meet me, and that they would come to call on me soon. We passed the painter Botticelli again, and he bowed deeply and kissed my hand without a word.

  Giuliano de’ Medici saw us out. “I shall look forward to your wedding, though the occasion shall break my heart,” he said. He clapped Marco on the back, then turned to me. “Signorina Simonetta.” He clasped both hands over his heart. “The mere sight of you has ruined me for all other women, for all time.”

  I laughed; Giuliano, it seemed, managed to put everyone at their ease. “Away with you, signore,” I said. “Would you so cavalierly break the hearts of all the women of Florence?”

  “Ah, that you should speak of heartbreak, when I must watch you marry my friend!” he exclaimed. “If only I had found you first!”

  I glanced at Marco, to see what his reaction to this was, but he only laughed, prompting me to do the same. “Such a devoted chevalier!” I said, warming to this game of courtly love. “I shall remember your broken heart in my prayers, signore.”

  He took my hand and kissed it, his lips lingering longer than was proper. I felt myself flush; and who could blame me, when Giuliano was so very handsome? “May the Lord take pity on me,” he murmured, low enough that only I could hear, and there was something very different about his tone this time.

  Fortunately, though, our carriage came around, and Giuliano released me. Marco helped me in before climbing in beside me, followed by Chiara, who had been summoned from the kitchens. Then, with a flick of the reins, we were away, and the grand Medici palazzo faded into the night behind us.

  * * *

  “How did I do?” I asked Marco, a bit breathlessly, as the carriage bore us home.

  He smiled broadly. “You were marvelous, amore mio. Better than even I had imagined. They were all enchanted with you, and rightfully so.” He shook his head. “That Lorenzo de’ Medici and Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni should offer to host our wedding … I had never dreamed of such an honor.”

  “Nor I,” I said. “Are they always so generous, these Medici?”

  “With those they consider their friends, yes,” Marco answered. “And we are blessed that they should consider us so.” He smiled at me again, pride in every curve of his lips, his eyes. “You were wonderful, Simonetta,” he said again. “Truly.” Yet, as he sat back against the cushioned seat of the carriage, a subtle frown creased his forehead.

  I thought to ignore it, but when his expression had not changed after a moment, I spoke. “What is it, Marco?” I asked softly. “You look as if something is amiss.”

  He glanced up at me, and his expression cleared like clouds fleeing before the sun. “It is nothing,” he said. “Only…”

  “Yes?” I prompted eagerly. If we were to be husband and wife, then we must learn to confide in each other. I hoped that soon Marco would do so without hesitation. Suddenly dread slid down the walls of my stomach; perhaps something about my conduct gave him pause? Perhaps I did something foolish, or inappropriate, and have embarrassed him. Perhaps he was even then trying to find the words to reprimand me, as he had every right to do as my future husband.

  But when Marco spoke, his words were not what I had expected. “Lorenzo introduced you to that painter, I believe, si? What was his name? The blond one?”

  “Sandro Botticelli,” I supplied.

  “Yes,” he said, and that troubled look returned. “Perhaps I should not speak of it, but…” he glanced up at me. “I do not suppose that you noticed, but I should say that I did. He was staring at you for much of the meal, quite blatantly so. It was inappropriate and rude. I should have thought that anyone enjoying the patronage of the Medici family would know to behave better.”

  “I am used to such attention from men,” I said, uncomfortable, as though I myself had done something wrong. I curled my fingers tightly around the book that sat in my lap, picking at the leather binding. “It may trouble you, and rightfully so, but I fear it will not cease.” I smiled. “Not until I am old and wrinkled and all my hair is gray, in any case.”

  Marco smiled at this, and leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Even in your old age, you will still be the most beautiful of women,” he said. “But … no. This attention was something quite different, I think—quite different from even the attention paid you by Lorenzo and Giuliano.”

  I wondered, fleetingly, if he had noticed the obvious appreciation with which both Medici brothers had regarded me, and how it made him feel. Perhaps he felt that, as his social betters, they had the right to look on his future wife in any way they chose, and there was nothing he could say to censure them.

  The painter Botticelli was not Marco’s social superior—quite the reverse. Yet I knew precisely what he meant when he spoke of the painter’s gaze upon me, for I had felt the same way myself, upon noticing him observing me. His was a different sort of regard altogether; yet I could not confess to Marco that I had noticed. Nor could I confess that I had
been deeply flattered, having fancied myself his next Judith in one of his paintings, perhaps. “Lorenzo had shown me some of his work, and so introduced me to the painter when he arrived,” I said. “He—Signor Botticelli, that is—said he wishes to paint me. Perhaps that was why he studied me so closely.”

  “Oh, he does, does he?”

  “Yes, I believe so,” I said.

  “Hmph.” Marco sat back again and crossed his arms over his chest, like a petulant boy. “Even worse. That he should speak to you of such a thing before getting permission from me, your future husband.”

  “I did not agree, nor make any promises as to my cooperation,” I hurriedly assured him. “Though I was indeed flattered by his suggestion that I am fit to sit for him.”

  “Hmph,” Marco huffed again. “He will never have had such a subject as you, I should think.” But he had begun to smile a bit. “If you wish to have your portrait painted, you need only ask. Florence is full of artists who will be falling all over themselves to paint you.”

  * * *

  I did not agree, nor make any promises as to my cooperation, I had said to Marco. But, later that night, I remembered that strange intimate look that had passed between the painter and myself, that odd and unbidden moment of accord, and knew that my words had not been quite true.

  9

  The next afternoon—after I had already described every detail of the previous evening to my mother over breakfast—one of the servants came into the sitting room with a message. “A caller here for you, Madonna,” he said.

  “Indeed?” my mother said. “Who could it be? I have yet to make any acquaintances in Florence—other than dear Marco’s parents, of course—”

  “Not for you, Madonna Cattaneo,” the man said. He turned to me and inclined his head. “For Madonna Simonetta.”